


ladies' night

by novoaa1



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Making Out, POV Jessica Jones, They talk, as always, claire being a whole angel, jessica being a cynical asshole, jessica jones is not as much of an asshole as she thinks she is, ladies night!, u know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24228736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: From what Jessica Jones can gather,everybodylikes Claire Temple: nurse practitioner and unofficially appointed patch-up specialist for every idiot in New York that has the brilliant (and evidently contagious) idea to take up a life of thankless heroism, all for the sole benefit of a race of self-absorbed jackasses that don’t deserve it in the first place.Or: Jessica begrudgingly begins to understand why everybody likes Claire Temple so damned much.
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Patricia Walker, Jessica Jones/Claire Temple, Luke Cage & Claire Temple, Matt Murdock & Claire Temple
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	ladies' night

**Author's Note:**

> random ass idea i thought of cause dude it wouldve been so lit to see them interact more holy mcfuck

From what Jessica Jones can gather, _everybody_ likes Claire Temple: nurse practitioner and unofficially appointed patch-up specialist for every idiot in New York that has the brilliant (and evidently contagious) idea to take up a life of thankless heroism, all for the sole benefit of a race of self-absorbed jackasses that don’t deserve it in the first place. 

Each and every member of the staff that works alongside her at Metro-General Hospital speak only her highest praises when Jessica gives each of the desks on Claire’s floor a call. She knows that no one in their right mind will talk to a complete rando, so instead, she claims to be a woman with an obscenely high-pitched voice named Laurie Michaels from the offices of the New York state senators. 

_Ms. Temple will be receiving a Congressional medal at the next state-wide Recognition Ceremony_ , she informs them in a tone ripe with self-importance. _Informal phone interviews such as these are standard procedure in order to further verify the recipient’s merit._

They all talked like high school speech-and-debater bully victims on speed, after that. 

And, of course, all good things— _only_ good things, to Jessica’s profound annoyance. 

Even Luke Cage’s stoic facade breaks for a second or two when Jessica casually name-drops her in conversation, his lips curving into a small smile and his typically unreadable dark-brown eyes crinkling fondly at the edges. 

So, yeah. It seems as if there isn’t a single person in the state of New York (and probably in the entire galaxy, at this rate) that doesn’t like Claire Temple. 

Hell, even _Jessica_ likes her. 

Which is a problem, because Jessica doesn’t “like” people. 

At best, she tolerates them, because they all suck. (Except Trish. And Luke. And, fine, yeah—Matt, too, she supposes.)

Not even to mention, the two of them have interacted… what, four times? Maybe five? (If Jessica’s perfectly honest with herself—which she seldom is, mind you—she knows exactly how many times they’ve crossed paths, and she remembers each and every single instance down to the last infuriatingly insignificant detail. Not that she’d ever willingly admit such a thing out loud, of course.)

Because throughout her life, one solitary thing remains a constant: _People do bad shit_. 

(Herself included.)

But Claire… well. Claire isn’t like the rest of them. She’s… unfailingly _good_ in ways even Luke and Matt can’t claim to be: an extraordinary woman with quick hands, razor-sharp wit, and poor enough luck that seems to consistently catch her in the direct crossfire of whatever bullshit the spandex-wearing justice-loving nut jobs of New York City (and Jessica, too, on occasion) get themselves into on an alarmingly regular basis. 

They don’t deserve a woman like her, the freaks and geeks and wannabe-superheroes willingly getting pumped full of lead on the daily like they’re invincible, like it won’t be down to Claire Temple (who most certainly didn’t ask for the job of freelance surgeon to every jackoff in New York City with traumatic pasts and a hero complex) to wade through the aftermath. No one seems to care that it’ll be her who cleans up every drop of blood, digs out every bullet, patches up every wound on their ungrateful body… like she won’t cave and fix them every time because she’s too goddamned _good_ to turn them away. 

And that’s the very crux of it all, isn’t it? That’s what’s so infuriating to Jessica about all of this... The inexhaustible measure of _good_ Claire Temple exhibits in everything she does, especially when it seems that there isn’t a single self-appointed guardian of New York City that seems to have a problem taking advantage of that goodness no matter how _virtuous_ they claim to be… and Claire, because she’s Claire, continues dragging them out of dumpsters and stitching them up and risking her life to play ball with every last one of these self-serving idiots anyways.

She’s smart enough to realize the weight of responsibility they’re forcing upon her, the manipulative way they appeal to her bleeding heart such that she feels morally obligated to help fix theirs, the fucking _rabbit hole_ she fell down upon that very first night she pulled Matthew Murdock (that infuriating two-horned asshole) from a garbage heap without understanding the _implications_ that lone act of kindness would hold.

Well, she knows now, Jessica supposes, whether she likes it or not. 

Jessica wonders if she regrets it.

☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤

“Do you regret it?” she finds herself asking on a Friday evening (“Ladies’ Night” at the shitty pub just down the street), three-and-a-half beers in and sitting at a rickety old table for two across from—

“Regret what?” Claire asks, plucking the maraschino cherry from her $5 cocktail with slender fingers and popping it into her mouth even as Jessica does her very best not to stare. 

Instead, she takes another long swig of shitty beer, then clarifies, “Helping Matt that first night.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, words slightly muffled around the cherry. 

Jessica shrugs. “The way I see it, helping him left you with a whole lot of crazy bullshit you never asked to deal with."

Claire’s lips twitch like she’s amused by the question—still, she pulls the cherry stem from her lips, chews with a thoughtful expression. “Very astute, Miss Jones. How much do I owe you?”

Jessica rolls her eyes dramatically at that, even as she feels a begrudging smile tug at her lips. “It’s a serious question, Doctor Temple.”

“ _Nurse_ Temple,” she corrects, then shakes her head, murmuring: “Though, with the amount of bullets I’ve pulled out of Matt over the past year, maybe it _should_ be ‘Doctor.’”

Jessica hums in agreement. “So, do you?”

Claire frowns. “Do I what?”

“Regret helping Matt that first night. Becoming the unofficial emergency medical assistance for every self-righteous vigilante in the City.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess,” Claire concedes with a shrug, narrowing her eyes at Jessica over the rim of her cocktail. “Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t,” Jessica scoffs defensively, taking another long pull of cheap beer. 

Claire’s immaculately-shaped brows begin to creep steadily towards her hairline. “… Right.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Jessica insists through gritted teeth, even as she knows she’s only further proving Claire’s point. 

“One of these days I’ll get it out of you, Jessica Jones,” Claire teases with an easy smile, though there’s a weightier note to her silken tone that tells Jessica she isn’t entirely kidding. 

“I wish you the best of luck with that,” Jessica deadpans, hating the curious warmth in her chest as Claire’s grin widens to bare a row of perfectly straight white teeth, tawny cheeks dimpled beneath the yellowy lights overhead. 

☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤

Jessica doesn’t know quite how it happens or who makes the first move, but some time later in the night finds them making out desperately in the alley just behind that spectacularly shitty bar. It’s messy—kissing open-mouthed and desperate in the light of a neon “LADIES’ NIGHT” sign hanging in a grimy window pane. Claire shoves Jessica up against the brick wall like she doesn’t care that Jessica is more than strong enough to break her spine in retaliation, like all that matters is tasting Jessica's tongue and ripping involuntary moans from her lips and running her warm gentle touch over every inch of Jessica’s pale skin beneath her tee.

And Jessica… well. Jessica kisses her back with just as much fervor; arches her back in an effort to get closer, to feel every inch of Claire’s supple body against her own. She strokes her trembling hands over the skin of Claire’s neck so gently that it hurts because she’s _terrified_ to break her but she wants, she wants, she _wants_ so much it’s damn near impossible to stop, to keep herself from ripping those baby-blue uniform scrubs from Claire's body and ravaging every last wondrous inch of her, nibbling and sucking and biting until she falls to pieces in Jessica’s arms.

So, fine, sure—maybe Jessica likes Claire Temple. 

And maybe, just maybe, Jessica doesn’t quite mind the fact that the nurse practitioner in her arms can’t quite seem to give all their sorry asses the middle finger like she should every time one of them comes crawling to her doorstep for help. 

(Especially not if this is where it lands her.)

☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤ ☤

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? comments? ... concerns? 🧐
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass cause i'm on there a lot more often if you wanna drop a message!)


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